


I felt it. You know what I mean.

by stormthedarkcity



Series: Fictober 2018 [28]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Grief/Mourning, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2020-10-04 08:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormthedarkcity/pseuds/stormthedarkcity
Summary: A few decades after Keerla Tabris's death, Alistair visits his old lover's statue to share some dire news.





	I felt it. You know what I mean.

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags!

Alistair waits for the morning sermon to be over before he slips out of the castle. He pulls a hood over his face and walks close to the walls in hurried steps.

No one stops him when he enters the alienage. The elves stare and scatter in wariness at the hooded stranger, but Cyrion walks up to him with no hesitation.

He is weaker now, uses a stick to steady himself. His hair has gone white a long time ago, but he still stands tall whenever anything threatens his people.

“Your Majesty,” he whispers, “is something wrong?”

“No. I’m here for your daughter.”

Cyrion nods slowly. “I see. I’ll keep the children away.”

Alistair thanks him, eyes already darting to the statue standing on the other side of the street, not far from the Tree of the People.

The statue is getting a little less shiny every year, apart from its pedestal. Children come sit by her feet, Cyrion reported, they bring flowers and trinkets, and they leave them for her.

There’s children there now. They’re playing some kind of hand game, singing in unison. They lift their heads when Cyrion calls their names, and obediently scurry off at his demand.

Alistair hoists himself up and sits by her feet. The statue is big, at least twice the size that the real Keerla used to be, and there’s a small engraving at the bottom. It reads_ Keerla Tabris, never forgotten_. Alistair swipes his thumb over the inscription.

“Hello, my love,” he murmurs.

He closes his eyes tightly, eyebrows knit together. There’s no tears. He hasn’t cried for her in many years. He lets his head fall, and the heavy hood falls farther down in front of his face too. He braces his hands on each side of his hips, fingernails scrapping the smoothed stone.

“It’s coming.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It started yesterday. It was like a... a freezing arrow twisting in my stomach.” He can’t hold back a spasm in his gut, and winces at the memory. “I felt it. You know what I mean.” He can’t bring himself to say it out loud. He hasn’t told anyone yet, but it’s there.

The Calling. His fingertips growing cold, the veins on his forearms turning ever-so-slightly grey. The edge of his vision darker than it should be.

“I don’t know how much longer I have. I contacted Wardens all around Thedas over the years, and they don't know."

He twists and looks up at Keerla’s stone face. Around it, her hair is long and free, just as long as it was before she cut it, on the night of the Battle of Denerim. The stone there has a red tinge, from children of the alienage climbing when adults ain’t looking, and smearing bright red dirt over her hair.

_Never forgotten_.

At least for this generation she isn’t. Cyrion makes sure of it. He tells tales of Keerla to the children, of her bright hair and the fire of her temper.

Alistair has been to one such evening, where Cyrion sits the children down and tells the story of the Hero of Ferelden. He wore a hood to hide both face and tears.

Now, by the statue’s feet, he sighs. “I wish you were here. It feels like it would be...easier. Everything, not just the Calling. I wish–"

And suddenly, it’s there again. Freezing arrow point in his gut, piercing and shredding. He gasps. Curls in on himself. His vision goes blurry for a second, and then it’s over. He wipes tears of pain from his cheeks with a trembling hand.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Cyrion talking to the children, but he’s got his attention on him. Alistair waves vaguely at him, and he turns back.

Alistair lets himself slide off the pedestal. He turns back towards it, rests fisted hands on it, before forcing them to uncurl and lay flat. He closes his eyes. “I’ll see you soon,” he lowers his forehead against the cold stone, “my love.”


End file.
